


Baby's First Homicide

by deeplyshallow



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Dark Humor, F/M, Gen, JD is a bad dad, Kid Fic, adult jdonica, aggressive meatloaf mom ronnie, apparently not vaguely healthy, but what do we know, co-work, dad jd, jdonica kid bc we all know it would be hell, people get fuckin zoinked, potentially murderous child, she would beat you over meatloaf, vaguely healthy Jdonica, veronica is an aggressive mom, we just write fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26958670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deeplyshallow/pseuds/deeplyshallow
Summary: A series of vignettes about Veronica, JD and their daughter as they tackle everyday challenges such as raising a child, dealing with middle class suburbia and covering up the odd murder.originally written with Chxrryb0mb
Relationships: Jason "J. D." Dean/Veronica Sawyer
Comments: 16
Kudos: 38





	Baby's First Homicide

**Author's Note:**

> This is...crack. Deeplyshallow and I have a lot of ideas for this and all of them are in morbid humor.
> 
> catch the sweeney todd reference

**31st October 1994**

The knife rips through the pumpkin crudely, leaving a jagged line in its wake. Veronica’s hold on the knife handle tightens, irritated, and she forces the blade down further. The table is cluttered around her; a fake spider made out of pipe cleaners and black fuzz balls hangs above her. There are other decorations plastered on their walls, on their fridge, but Veronica isn’t able to identify them no matter how hard she tries. She just tells her daughter _good job_ and slaps the drawing on the wall before J.D can question what it is.

“I hate this stupid fucking pumpkin,” Veronica mutters, conscious of her daughter’s presence a room over. She’s careful not to swear around her -- her daughter has already repeated enough _fucks_ thanks to J.D. Veronica pulls the pumpkin closer and repositions her knife, piercing the opposite side of her soon to be jack-o’-lantern. His movements were slow as he pressed the tip of the knife against the fruit.

“You know they’re not going to be even, right?”

Veronica’s knife clinks against the table as she jolts, driving the knife much, much further than she intended. She blinks down at the massacre, lips parted, her expression disbelieving as she looks at the now ruined fruit.

“My bad,” J.D’s footsteps are loud as he steps behind Veronica, looking over her shoulder in faux interest. Veronica’s body heats in annoyance. He isn’t discrete about the humor he finds in this.

Veronica groans and slides a hand down her face before turning to face her husband, leaning against the table and regarding him with narrowed eyes. J.D grin

“It’s fine. Halloween will be over soon anyway.”

“Yeah, but I had plans with this,” Veronica continues dramatically, turning to dispose of her trash. “I wanted this one.”

“I can’t help that you murdered it, Ronnie,” J.D’s grin intensifies. The crooked smile isn’t something she regularly sees. Veronica shifts her weight between her feet.

“Interesting wording.”

She’s found that J.D is always in a better mood around Halloween, the time when all the fake blood and guts come on screen and he has an excuse to show their daughter something gorier than a Strawberry Shortcake episode.

Things changed a little when Eden came into the picture; Veronica nagged him more, locked his toys away, and told him to shut up about his murderous anarchy thing. He listens for the most part, or at least until she turns her back to him and he tells their kid a story far too inappropriate -- and illegal -- for school’s storytime. 

He lightens up around Halloween; spending the leading days jumping through Veronica’s rules and giving Eden a Halloween that would have driven child Veronica into hiding for years on end. It’s mostly for selfish reasons. Veronica knows he cares -- he’d have to care considering how much trouble their daughter has gotten into (five-year-olds are a handful), but the problem is that little Eden always seems to share his excitement, her little eyes lighting up when he talks about the macabre. 

Veronica is pretty sure that it’s his genes that have caused all the trouble. By all accounts she was an angel at that age, it was only later that she fell. And she supposes she _should_ have seen it coming. It was written in stone that this was a bad idea; she knew the dread that crept into her stomach at a positive pregnancy test had nothing to do with a threat towards her pristine reputation (which had been sorted with a very hasty marriage).

Babies were a mess to begin with. _The terrible twos,_ the diapers, the lack of sleep. She’d read a lot of guides about how it was nurture, rather than nature which made the most difference for a child. However, maybe raising a child with a serial killer wasn’t the best way to test that theory anyway. That’s an academic experiment she didn’t want to take part in.

And it isn’t like she doesn’t _want_ Eden. She loves her child more than anything, even when she resembles her father a little too much and her temper tantrums are more violent than they should be. She has a lot of good times when Veronica’s not locking up the knives.

Veronica looks at her carving knife and shivers. Maybe the decision to keep her daughter in the other room had more to do with the blades than her cursing.

“What the fuck is that?” J.D breaks their silence with a profanity; Veronica spins on her heel and shushes him.

“Eden can hear,” She chastises. He keeps his arm outstretched and Veronica follows where he’s pointing, frowning when she finds Eden’s art at criticism. “That’s her art. Stop before you hurt her feelings. Our daughter is many things, but artistically gifted she is not. I think she said that one was a skeleton,” says Veronica pointing to a drawing that, for all intents and purposes looks like a scribble.

JD, as usual takes any criticism of his daughter as an affront to himself, “Of course she can’t express her creativity with all your limitations. If you’d just allowed us to put something more exciting up than ghosts, skeletons, and spiders. A few decapitated heads and hanging bodies would make it all a lot more convincing.”

“She’s five, she needs fun, not convincing.” 

“More convincing _is_ more fun,” he insists, “you’re just upset that you’re not very good at tying nooses. ”

Veronica scowls, “It was convincing enough to fool you.”

“Different circumstances, dear. I thought you were dead. These wouldn’t even be real dead bodies. Probably… unless Lynn...”

“Lynn and I are getting on very well now, thank you very much.” They weren’t. The bitch had snubbed the cake she’d made for the summer fete, but she didn’t think she wanted to let JD know that. Not unless she did it again, at least.

 _Murdered over cake._ The idea sounds stupid enough to place it as a _The Simpsons_ plot. Veronica taps her fingers against her thigh. 

“You can’t murder the entire neighborhood committee. Anyway,” Veronica lifts her chin slightly. “Everyone would know who did it. You’re scary.”

J.D flashes a grin. The arrogance is not lost on her. “Only for you, baby.”

Veronica flushes and adjusts her weight between her feet. “Stop playing with me,” She mumbles, attempting to reach around him and place the knife in the sink. Her cheeks burn painfully bright.

J.D catches Veronica’s wandering hand right before she drops the knife and plucks it from her grip in one swift moment. Veronica bites away her gasp. He moves so quickly that she hasn’t had time to lower her hand; he clutches her arm and places a kiss to the inside of her wrist. Veronica’s blush burns brighter, but she doesn’t let herself be sidetracked.

“We need to talk about her costume.”

J.D’s fingers flex around Veronica’s wrists tightly. It isn’t a threat to her, but a warning of his attitude. “Don’t get me started on those ridiculous restrictions you’ve put on her costume this year.”

“JD, you promised.”

He waves her worries to the side, “I followed your instructions to the letter, and despite everything, it’s going to be perfecto, but my point is, that it was so unneeded last year was great.”

“We got so many complaints last year. And that incredibly awkward call to the police.”

“She wanted to go as Chucky.”

“She _hates_ that movie,” Veronica doesn’t know who she’s trying to convince, but she refuses to believe any child, not even hers would enjoy so much decapitation. “She also wants to only eat candy for dinner and we don’t indulge that.”

“We don’t indulge that when you’re around,” he mutters.

Veronica chooses to ignore the comment, knowing full well that Eden has her father wrapped around her little finger, in his eyes the girl can do no wrong, “It got mentioned at the PTA meeting, at least 7 children had nightmares and Angela across the road didn’t invite me around for a garden party for six months.”

“It’s not my fault the other parents are raising their children to be wusses, and I _told_ you I would take care of Angela.”

The urge to smack the back of his head is suffocating.

“Remember that I’m checking Eden’s bag. No funny business.” Veronica pats his chest, holding her carving knife tight to her side and moving around him to migrate back into the kitchen. His footsteps follow.

“There isn’t going to be any razors in her chocolate, Ronnie.” 

“I’m not worried about her chocolate, I’m worried about you two going out together on a night where you’re supposed to be threatening people for sweets.”

“Relax, Ronnie,” He speaks, “I’m bringing my gun in case anyone gets rowdy.”

Veronica swears she can feel her blood pressure tick higher. J.D will inadvertently kill her. She swears on it. “Yeah, because the toddler dressed up as Ariel is going to start a brawl.” Her sarcasm is scathing. “Where’s her damn bag?”

“I thought you said no cursing.”

“J.D, you…” Veronica grits her teeth. “You irritate me. Now, where is her bag -- and I want to get it. I don’t trust you not to take anything out of it.”

J.D’s expression hardens slightly. “How about we get back to our pumpkins?”

“Where’s the bag?”

J.D sucks his teeth. “Under our bed.”

“And it’s the Winnie the Pooh one? She doesn’t like the other one.”

“I...may have switched it out this year. She wanted Frankenstein.”

“Frankenstein was the doctor,” Veronica growls. She stomps up the stairs dramatically, ignoring J.D’s cackle. The stairs creak under her with each step. The walls transition between paint and wallpaper as she enters her room. 

Their windows are open, creating a breeze that causes Veronica to shiver. She deters from the bed to close them but pauses when she sees a child run across the street. Dread pricks the back of her neck. Her murderous husband and alarmingly morbid daughter are going to walk the streets of her neighborhood tonight, possibly endangering the other pedestrians. Eden can trip once and scrape her knee and J.D will blame it on whoever is closest.

And of course, Veronica will be with them. Veronica knows better than to leave them alone anymore. Veronica just can’t be twenty places at once, and when Becky from the end of the block wants to talk to her about homemade Jell-O, J.D will be left unmonitored.

With a slam, Veronica closes the window. The glass trembles.

 _Anger management, Ronnie._ Veronica reminds herself as she gets onto her knees, extending an arm under the bed and groping randomly. She misses the first few swipes before she manages to catch something, frowning when she feels hard plastic instead of the plush fabric of the intended bucket.

“Jason,” She mutters. She pulls the bucket out anyway, grimacing at the monstrous face carved into the front. It’s something that would have given _her_ nightmares at her daughter’s age.

The front isn’t nearly as bad as what’s inside it. The hammer is unmissable, the mini pistol is something that makes Veronica drop the bag with a squeak.

“Fuck,” She hisses. She briefly looks towards her door to make sure Eden isn’t lurking around the corner before shoving the bag back under the bed.

She stomps back down the stairs, “A hammer, JD, why in the world would we need a hammer when we are taking our five year old out trick or treating?

“Trick,” he says, as if it is obvious.

_What trick? Smashing windows or bashing their head in?_

“J.D, firstly I don’t think you understand the concept of this holiday, and secondly, again, she is five.”

“You’re right,” he says thoughtfully, “she probably isn’t strong enough to swing a hammer yet, how about a screwdriver?”

“What about good old eggs?” Not that that’s ethical either, but at least it doesn’t cause any permanent damage or brain injuries, just some nasty stains on the carpet, “and don’t get me started on the gun. I have told you a million times we live in a nice neighborhood we don’t…”

“Daddy! Daddy!” says a loud voice at the doorway, their daughter is jumping from foot to foot with excitement, “can we put the costume on now?”

“Relax. It’s just good fun,” he says, turning to follow his daughter, who she can hear is already running up the stairs.

“We haven’t finished this conversation.”

“Veronica, do you want our daughter to feel neglected?”

"Obviously not, but making her wait a minute will not hurt. You have to teach her discipline…”

But he’s already left the room.

_Well at least Eden and JD will be the two people this year who have a fantastic Halloween. I’ll just spend it ripping my hair out and hoping nothing goes wrong._

She returns her attention to the pumpkin who looks like it’s experienced a brutal attack, and carefully carves it until it has a lopsided smile. It doesn’t look very scary, but she considers this a bonus, at least they’ll have one child friendly thing in this madhouse.

Another squeal from the top of the stairs “Mommy, mommy, I’m ready! I’m coming down! Look at me!”

Veronica makes her way to the corridor with trepidation which is immediately vindicated as she realizes that she has, once again, made the rookie mistake of taking his word when he said the costume would be less extreme this year

“Ta-da!” says Eden, running down the stairs, suspicious red liquid dripping all over Veronica’s tasteful cream carpet, “I am princess Carrie, who uses her superpowers to beat all the mean children.”

“Lovely.” Veronica deadpans, shortly. Just another idol her daughter needs, like her looking up to her father isn’t terrifying enough. “Are you sure you don’t want to go as a cat like Natalie? You can use my eyeliner for the whiskers.”

But the girl shakes her dark curls and looks up at her like her father does when he begs Veronica to forgive him for committing a double homicide.

“Or a witch? I could paint you green!”

“I want this,” Eden’s chimes. Veronica’s heel digs against the ground. _Not her fault,_ Veronica reminds herself. _Don’t yell at her._ “I want to be a princess like the lady on the TV.”

Veronica eye twitches. _I’m going to beat his ass, he’s dead, he’s fucking dead._ She can’t turn her back for one second without J.D clicking on the television for her.

“What about Cinderella, she’s a princess?”

“In the original Cinderella, at the end the stepsisters chop off their feet to fit the shoe and then get their eyes pecked out by birds.” says JD, “you like that version, don’t you Eden?”

In less than a moment, Veronica has her hand over his mouth and reminds herself that parental responsibilities like reading his daughter a goddamn bedtime story might be a little too challenging for him.

The girl’s eyes screw up and Veronica can sense with an uncanny instinct, that comes with raising this child and her father for five years, that any further suggestions will result in a tantrum, and Veronica hasn’t had time to put away the nice china.

Veronica puts on a fixed smile. It hurts. “Okay, sweetie, why don’t you put on your shoes, while your father and I have a discussion.”

 _Asshole, bitch, stupid motherfucker, dickhead, bastard._ Veronica internally lists off all the profanities she knows as she watches her daughter wobble away on tiny legs, brown curls bouncing behind her.

“You,” she says the moment Eden is out of sight. She jabs a finger in his chest, “are sleeping on the couch, until Christmas. Longer if she gets no invites to the Christmas parties.” 

“What? It was you who said that Eden would be happy just wearing a pretty dress.” He sounds genuinely offended and just as clueless, like there is _nothing_ he could have done to offend her.

“I didn’t say, cover it with blood. You promised you wouldn’t make her a horror villain this year.”

“She isn’t, Carrie is undeniably the hero of the story. She kills all the assholes bullying her, burns down the school, and then dies in a heroic sacrifice after killing her abusive mom. And I wanted Eden to leave an impression.”

“Giving other children nightmares isn’t a good impression to give, we want her to make friends remember? ” Veronica quips, annoyed. “We aren’t in high school anymore, you can’t woo me with that shit. And where did you get the blood from? The Halloween stores are sold out.”

J.D rocks back on his heels slightly, and Veronica’s anger intensifies. The profanities repeat.

“The blood they sell in the stores isn’t even realistic, and it’s made of all this artificial gunk. We don’t want our daughter exposed to that, it’ll probably give her cancer.”

“Don’t bullish- _lie_ to me, JD, you have given me exactly zero answers.”

“Can we gooooo? I want to get more candy than Natalie.” Eden’s voice is piercing.

Veronica considers whether now would be a good time to give her daughter a lesson on sharing, but there are more pressing matters. Especially now JD is sneaking out of the room to avoid further interrogation. 

Instead, she decides to start with the basics.

“So Eden, what do we say when asking for treats?”

“I will burn you assholes to the ground!” 

Veronica rocks back on her heels, the words being a physical blow before she regathers her thoughts and sighs, rolling her eyes. She makes a mental note to hold a particularly spectacular dinner party with all the moms next month, so she can beg for forgiveness, J.D locked out of the house. “Close, you say ‘trick or treat’.”

“And if you give you a treat you say...”

Eden smiles up at her through long lashes, inherited from her father. Eden looks quite like him. It makes her emotional outbursts all the more terrifying. And J.D eats it all up, despite his original disdain towards her pregnancy, he thrives off Eden’s behavior, taking pride in it.

She’s just like her father, right down to her psychotic tendencies. Veronica shivers.

“Thank you.” Eden answers.

“Perfect! Well done for remeb…”

“...And if they don’t, you throw rocks at their windows!” with the sort of enthusiasm that her father has when he’s just seen a particularly exquisite gun. 

And then the blow hits her again, and Veronica pinches the bridge of her nose, deciding to keep a very firm hold on her daughter’s hand all night.

* * *

The entirely predictable disapproving glares follow them around the neighborhood, as they herd their demonic psychic horror-movie child among a sea of cats, ghosts, witches, and pumpkins.

“She’s the ghost bride,” says Veronica, whenever anyone gives her the chance, “you know, from the Haunted Mansion, at Disneyland,” _that totally age appropriate thing that we took our child to, like a normal family would,_ it’s not that convincing, considering Eden is not wearing white, nor is the ghost bride at Disneyland covered in (potentially real) blood, the smarter moms are going to see straight through her, but five year olds are not very observant and very persuadable so maybe they’ll cause a few fewer nightmares than they did last year. Maybe that will save her from being crossed off too many Christmas card lists.

That is, if her darling daughter stops shouting, “No Mommy, I _told_ you, I’m Princess Carrie.”

Next year, she’s going as a fairy princess and he is not going to be allowed anywhere near the costumes. She’ll lock him out of the house. He’d probably just climb through her window like she was seventeen all over again.

_No more horror movies, no staying up past the bedtime, I’ll have to apologize to her teachers again. Maybe she has to be homeschooled? Oh, no. Then she has more time around J.D. Goddamnit, why does he have to work at home? Goddamnit, this is bad —_

“Mommy,” Eden tugs on her hand. “We have more houses.”

Veronica peers down the dark street. More and more houses have been turning their lights off and it’s concerning for more than one reason. She has J.D beside her, clutching his hand tightly, but it doesn’t mean the rest of the danger is off the streets.

“Just a few more, baby,” Veronica says quietly. _It’s fine, everything is fine. J.D is a bigger threat._ Nobody is going to approach them while he’s with her. “Then we have to go home and give you a bath.”

The other mothers are judging. Veronica _knows_ the other mothers are judging. Becky from the end of the block has already scrutinized her — _fuck your Jell-o, Becky. It tastes like shit_ — and she’s sure she won’t hear the end of it the next time they have a meeting.

 _Hey, Ronnie. You know how your kid looked like a serial killer? Yeah, we don’t do that here._ Stupid fucking suburban households, who smile to your face and then spend the rest of the night talking behind your back about the scandal of you being a 23 year old mother.

It was so hard to try and escape her past regardless — the suicide of your best friend is something that people pity you over forever, and it never got any better because Heather Chandler did not kill herself in any way. But Veronica _did_ get away and was plunged into a world where you’re exiled if your cooking sucked shit.

Still, she reflects, it’s probably better (if less accurate) than, _Your husband looks like a serial killer._ Which she would have to awkwardly laugh off because _how asinine is that?_ Totally not plausible and realistic _at all._

The Jack-o-lanterns slowly blow out one by one, as if Veronica were walking through the old Disney cartoons she used to watch. The kinds that were actually _appropriate_ for kids, and didn’t result in something bloody. J.D holds her hand tightly (or maybe she holds his, the nerves are too suffocating to really tell) and Veronica keeps Eden close in tow. Trying hard to remember what is going on with her various neighbors, lest they knock on an unanswered door and her husband and daughter feel this worthy of a trick.

 _Sarah’s house is out, Kelsey isn’t home, Lolita is in California, did the Parksons_ _move out? I think they moved out._ Veronica picks through the houses. _Yes, the Parksons left. I think his husband passed. I should have given flowers —_

Eden jerks Veronica forward. “ _Mom,”_ She says. Not the usual _mommy_ she gives when she’s in a pleasant mood. Just the sharp _mom_ that means she's down to business.

“She’s getting tired, Jason,” Veronica speaks. Eden shakes his head _no,_ curls flying, but Veronica knows better. She’s moving sluggishly, using Veronica’s hold to keep her on her feet rather than balancing herself.

“She’s fine.” J.D’s voice is audible, irritable.

“We’ll have to carry her home if we keep this up.” Veronica bugs him. It doesn’t work. She doesn’t know why she thought it would — he isn’t a normal father.

“Then I’ll carry her. Let her have her fun.”

Veronica’s hold on Eden tightens slightly, though nothing enough to cause pain. She doesn’t think Eden herself really notices; she continues prancing through the street, pulling her parents along with her.

Veronica doesn’t release her hand, even when there is no opportunity for danger and Veronica has no reason for her heart to be beating out of her chest.

There are four houses, and then there are three, and then the second one has no lights on, and they’re stuck at the third.

A lump forms in Veronica’s throat. Her grip on both parties has tightened significantly. _Nothing is going to happen._ She repeats the mantra to herself, though she doesn’t think it does much.

Veronica squeezes J.D’s hand right before they take the first step onto the porch. From behind a glass door, an elderly woman smiles at them, hand perched in a bowl of candy.

 _Oh, christ._ Mrs. Lovett. The one person Veronica doesn’t have a single thing against in this neighborhood.

“Don’t do anything,” Veronica hisses between gritted teeth. J.D’s hand squeezes hers, but it feels more like a confirmation that he heard her than an agreement.

“Remember what to say, baby,” Veronica releases Eden’s hand for a moment to let the girl extend her bag. Mrs. Lovett looks at the Winnie the Pooh face and laughs, clutching her chest lightly. Through her paranoia, Veronica feels a bit of smugness. She knew her bag was better.

The night is almost done; Veronica has nothing left to fear after this. They’ll carry Eden home, clean her, and let her do whatever she does until it’s bedtime, and Veronica will finally be free.

Eden’s posture changes within a millisecond. Fifty warning bells go off in Veronica’s head, and she attempts to seek out the problem without alerting the elderly woman of just how much danger she might be in.

Placing a hand on Eden’s head, Veronica peers into the candy bag, frowning while simultaneously freezing in fear. She isn’t one to be a hard ass it comes to candy consumption — usually the less the better —but a tiny, generic tootsie roll isn’t going to please Eden.

“I’m afraid that’s all the candy I can give you, dear,” The elderly woman smiles. “I have to save some for the other kids.”

 _Be quiet, be quiet, please be quiet._ Veronica silently pleads with her.

“It’s okay, baby,” Veronica attempts to soothe the temper tantrum before it starts. “I have candy at home you can have,” — she’s lying, she’ll have to buy some — “Let’s just go to the next house.”

Eden seems to sedate for a moment, squinting up at the woman. Veronica’s attention follows. The woman has blanched white, similar to the _Creepshow_ zombies Veronica — and probably Eden, knowing J.D’s parenting tendencies — saw on television on their station’s horror night. Veronica extends a hand, worried. She hadn’t seen Eden do anything.

It’s then that she realizes she’s let her husband out of her sight.

And then Veronica hears the click of a gun revolving, and she understands. 

_Fuck._

_Well_ , she reasons as she resigns herself to another session of clearing evidence, _at least middle class suburbia will have a more exciting scandal to gossip about than my child’s costume, and she’ll be blamed for exactly none of the children’s nightmares._

This year it might not even come up at the PTA meeting.


End file.
